"You may now kiss the bride."
The priest's words landed like a hammer on fragile glass. The entire cathedral seemed to contract around Amara Kingsley—walls pressing in, air thinning, the roar of applause fading into a high, tinny silence inside her skull. Her pulse thundered so violently she was sure the guests in the front pews could hear it.
Every step she had forced down that endless red carpet, every brittle smile she had pasted on for the photographers, every shallow breath she had stolen while her aunt's nails dug into her arm—it had all funneled into this single, suffocating moment.
Dominic Blackwood turned toward her with the slow, deliberate grace of a man who had never once been rushed in his life.
He was impossibly tall up close, broader than the photographs suggested, his black tuxedo cut so precisely it looked painted on. The faint scent of his cologne reached her first—sandalwood, bergamot, something darker and smokier underneath, like a storm gathering over the lagoon at night. It wrapped around her senses and made her head swim.
Amara's hands trembled violently around the crushed stems of her white roses. Thorns pierced the satin gloves; she welcomed the sting. Pain was real. Pain could keep her grounded.
Please don't know, she begged silently, the prayer looping in frantic circles. Please don't see through me. Please, God, not now.
The veil still shielded part of her face, a thin illusion of separation, but she felt Dominic's gaze slice straight through the lace. Those eyes—deep, nearly black, flecked with amber in the candlelight—studied her the way a jeweler might examine a stone suspected of being flawed. Calculating. Patient. Merciless.
He stepped closer.
The tip of her veil brushed the crisp edge of his lapel.
Amara's breath snagged in her throat. Heat radiated from his body despite the cool air of the cathedral. Her heart slammed against her ribs so hard she was afraid the corset would crack.
"Do not be afraid," he murmured, voice pitched so low it vibrated only between them. "If this is a game, I will enjoy discovering every secret."
The words landed like ice water down her spine.
He knew.
Or at the very least, he suspected.
Amara's mind fractured. Elena's face flashed behind her eyes—her cousin's perfect features, the easy confidence, the laugh that could charm boardrooms and ballrooms alike. Elena, who had been promised to Dominic Blackwood since they were teenagers in a quiet arrangement between families. Elena, who had vanished three days ago with nothing but a cryptic text to Amara: I can't do this. I'm sorry. You're the only one who can fix it.
And Amara—desperate, terrified for her mother's next dialysis payment, terrified of the men who had started circling their house after her father's death—had said yes.
She had slipped into Elena's dress. Taken her place. Signed papers with a trembling hand. Prayed the veil, the distance, the chaos of the wedding would be enough.
But Dominic was already peeling the illusion away.
His fingers—long, steady—reached for the edge of her veil.
He lifted it slowly, almost reverently, folding the lace back over her head like he was unwrapping something fragile and expensive. Cool air kissed her cheeks. There was nowhere left to hide.
Their eyes locked.
Up close, she saw the faint scar above his left eyebrow, the tension at the corners of his mouth, the way his pupils had dilated just enough to betray interest—or suspicion.
"Amara," he said softly, tasting her real name like a secret he had already stolen.
Her heart lurched. "I—"
He pressed one finger lightly against her lips, silencing her.
The touch was electric. A spark jumped from his skin to hers and raced straight down her spine. She inhaled sharply.
"There's something you're hiding," he continued, voice barely above a whisper. "I can feel it in every tremble. Every hesitation. You move like someone walking into a trap they helped set."
Amara's knees threatened to buckle. She gripped the bouquet with both hands, using the pain in her palms to stay upright.
"I… I don't know what you mean," she managed, the lie tasting like ash.
A ghost of a smile touched his mouth—not kind, not cruel. Dangerous.
"Do you kiss like this often?" he asked, so quietly the words were more breath than sound. "Not like a bride… but like someone trying to survive a lie?"
Her lips parted, but no sound came out.
"Shhh," he murmured. "It's fine. I only want to see how honest you are in this one moment."
His hand slid to her waist—firm, possessive, steadying her at the same time it caged her. The other cupped the side of her face, thumb brushing the delicate skin beneath her eye. The gesture was tender and terrifying in equal measure.
Time bent.
The cathedral, the guests, the flashing cameras, the priest—all of it receded until there was only Dominic Blackwood and the unbearable heat building between them.
He leaned in.
Amara's body locked. Every muscle screamed run, but her feet stayed rooted to the marble.
His lips brushed hers—once, feather-light, testing.
She gasped.
That small sound seemed to ignite something in him.
The second kiss was not gentle.
It was deliberate. Claiming. Devastating.
His mouth moved over hers with slow, controlled hunger, as though he had all the time in the world to unravel her. One hand slid to the small of her back, pulling her flush against him; the other tangled lightly in the hair at her nape, tilting her head to the exact angle he wanted.
Amara's mind short-circuited.
She should have pushed him away. Should have remembered the lie, the danger, her mother's hospital bed. Instead her traitorous hands fisted in the lapels of his tuxedo, holding on as though he were the only solid thing in a world that was collapsing.
Heat exploded through her—sharp, unwanted, undeniable.
His tongue traced the seam of her lips. A question.
She answered without thinking—opening for him, letting him deepen the kiss until the taste of him—mint, champagne, raw power—flooded every sense.
The cathedral erupted around them—applause, cheers, rice raining down like confetti—but the sounds were muffled, distant, underwater.
All she could hear was the thunder of her own heartbeat and the low, satisfied sound Dominic made against her mouth.
When he finally pulled back, it was only far enough to rest his forehead against hers for a single, suspended second.
His breathing was steady. Hers was ragged.
"You're different from her," he said quietly, so only she could hear. "Every move. Every breath. You are… not Elena."
Amara's blood turned to ice.
He knew.
"I—" Panic clawed up her throat.
His thumb traced the curve of her cheek, wiping away the single tear that had escaped despite her best efforts.
"We'll see," he murmured. "Very soon, I'll see everything. And nothing you hide will remain secret for long."
He straightened, releasing her waist but keeping her hand captured in his. To the watching crowd he looked every inch the perfect groom—tall, composed, victorious.
But Amara felt the brand of his touch lingering on her skin like a promise.
Or a threat.
The priest cleared his throat, repeating the words that now felt like mockery: "You may kiss the bride."
Too late.
They had already kissed.
And the kiss had changed everything.
Dominic guided her hand through the crook of his arm with practiced ease. They turned to face the congregation. Cameras flashed like lightning. Guests stood, clapping, smiling, oblivious to the war that had just begun between the newlyweds.
As they started the walk back down the aisle, Dominic leaned close again, lips brushing the shell of her ear.
"I don't hate you for this," he said softly. "Not yet."
Amara's stomach twisted.
"But I will find out why you're here instead of her," he continued. "And when I do… we'll decide what happens next. Together."
The word together should have sounded like partnership.
Coming from him, it sounded like possession.
They stepped out of the cathedral into blinding Lagos sunlight. Luxury cars idled in a long black line. Security men in dark suits formed a discreet corridor. Photographers surged forward, shouting for one more shot.
Dominic raised their joined hands in a classic victory pose—perfect for the society pages.
But his grip on her fingers was unrelenting.
Amara forced a smile for the cameras. Inside, she was screaming.
The lie had not ended with the ceremony.
It had only just begun.
And Dominic Blackwood—ruthless, magnetic, dangerously perceptive—was already hunting the truth.
Men like him never stopped until they had everything.
And now he wanted her secrets.
Her body still hummed from the kiss—lips swollen, skin flushed, pulse erratic.
She had walked into this marriage to save her mother.
But as Dominic guided her toward the waiting Rolls-Royce, she understood with chilling clarity:
The real danger wasn't the lie itself.
It was the man who had just tasted it on her lips—and liked the flavor.